“White, and Americans at that,” Tom retorted.
“Put none but Americans on guard tonight, Evarts!
What do you suppose has happened?”

“Can’t guess.”

“No! You’re still too sleepy.
Evarts, some scoundrels have blown out a good part
of our wall yonder.”

“Are you joking, Mr. Reade?”

“No, sir; I am not. Dynamite must have
been used. Hazelton and I heard the noise of
the blast, but of course we got out there too late
to catch any miscreant at the job.”

Evarts, at first, was inclined to regard the news
with mild disbelief, but he soon realized that something
must have happened very nearly as the young chief
engineer had described.

“Well, what are you standing there for?”
Tom demanded, impatiently. “Are you going
to wait for daylight? Get the four men out—–­all
Americans, mind you. Hustle, man!”

Evarts started away; toward the camp over to the left
of them. As he did so Tom darted in another
direction. Two minutes later Tom was back, piloting
by one arm a man who was still engaged in rubbing the
sleep out of his eyes. This was Conlon, engineer
of the motor boat, “Morton.”

“Where’s Evarts?” Reade queried,
impatiently. “Oh, Evarts! Where are
you, and what are you doing?”

“Trying to get four men awake,” bawled
back the voice of the foreman, from the distance.
“As soon as I get one man on his feet the other
three have sunk back to sleep.”

“Wait until I get over there then!” called
Tom, striding forward. “Come along, Conlon!
Don’t you lag on me.”

“There! Do you fellows reckon you want
Mr. Reade to bump in here and shake you out?”
sounded the warning voice of Evarts.

As Tom and the motor boat’s engine tender reached
the little, box-like shack from which Evarts’s
tones proceeded, four men, seated on the floor, were
seen to be lacing their shoes by the dim light of a
lantern.

“A nice lot you are!” called Tom crisply.
“How many hours does it take you to get awake
when you’re called in the middle of the night?”

“This overtime warn’t in the agreement,”
sleepily retorted one of the men.

“You’re wrong there,” Reade informed
him, vehemently. “Overtime is in
the agreement for every man in this camp when it’s
wanted of him—–­from the chief engineer
all along the line. Now, you men oblige me by
hustling. I don’t want to wait more than
sixty seconds for the last man of you.”

“I’ve a good mind to crawl back into my
bunk,” growled another of the men.

“All right,” retorted Tom Reade, with
suspicious cheerfulness. “Try it and see
what kind of fireworks I carry concealed on my person.
Or, just lag a little bit on me, and you’ll
see the same thing. Men, do you realize that
there’s foul play afoot out on the retaining
wall? We’ve got to go out there in time
to stop anything more happening. Now, you’ve
got your shoes on; grab the rest of your clothing
and hustle it on as we make for the beach. Come
along!”